You are now Quill-Weave.
Anyway, after spending all of yesterday cooped up in your house pouring over old historical documents from the Reman Dynasty, you’ve decided to get out and perform some first-hand research for your upcoming historical fiction series, Path of the Doomstones.
As the name would imply, the series revolves around the “Doomstones”, the twenty-one ancient stone monoliths scattered throughout Cyrodiil. The monuments themselves date back to the first era, and most of them are named after constellations. Popular myth holds that the Doomstones harbor great magical power. Like most popular myth, you expect this to be complete bullshit.
However, you do pride yourself on the historical accuracy of your work. And, given that one of these Doomstones was apparently pissing distance from your house, you pretty much had no excuse not to check it out. If it turns out these Doomstones actually do hold some kind of magical power, your entire historical fiction series built on the assumption that they are just rocks is going to look pretty silly.
No, worse: it’ll look like fantasy.
And so here you are, at what – according to your research – is known as the “Lady Stone”. Quite frankly, you’d rather be doing something else. Maybe going bar oscillating (that’s bar hopping in a shitty port town with only two bars), or writing the nineteenth draft of that meandering and incoherent letter you’re going to be sending up to Chorrol on the next available courier. But no, you have an authorial obligation to determine that this rock is not magical.
There certainly doesn’t look to be anything magical about it.
It looks like a fucking rock.
Yes, after centuries of mystery surrounding these stones, it turns out all someone had to do to activate their powers was touch them.
But no, really, nothing happens.
It feels like a fucking rock.
It’s worth a shot; you’re here to discount possibilities, after all.
There are no obvious targets or anything on the Doomstone to shoot at, but if they made it that tall any magical trigger would probably be near the top, out of reach of animals and the like. You’re not the best shot, but a couple arrows to the top parts of the stone shouldn’t be a problem.
Nobody was around to see you do that and you will never be able to repeat it, ever.
Regardless, the doomstone remains nonresponsive.
They look like regular, hanging chains. There doesn’t seem to be any kind of pulley mechanism, meaning there’s probably no tedious, guesswork-heavy chain-pulling puzzle. Which you’re thankful for. Shit like that is why you left Jesan’s D&D group.
You guess there still could be some kind of magical trigger built into the chains, but without knowing the enchanter or his motivations there would be no way to tell what you need to do.
There aren’t enough people here to stage any actual daring rescues, so you just end up playing all the roles yourself.
After kidnapping yourself and chaining you to a pillar for an evil sacrifice, you dramatically burst into the stone circle at the last moment and defeat yourself, rescuing you and freeing her from captivity, after which the two (one?) of you stroll off into the sunset.
The whole thing is incredibly silly.
The Doomstone remains unimpressed by your performance.
But no, really, you’re only a few hundred feet from the coast. These pillars were probably for chaining up boats or something.
You didn’t expect that to actually do anything, but you’ve always wanted to use that useless skill for something.
The runes, as far as you are able to tell, are a bunch of meaningless scribbles. In all your second-hand research, you haven’t found so much as a translation or even interpretation of them. Their only noteworthy feature is apparently that they are phosphorescent red, and you’ll just have to take the book’s word on that one.
Counterpoint: it’s a fucking rock.
Despite prohibitive facial anatomy, you give it your all and passionately make out with the doomstone.
It tastes like a fucking rock and, unsurprisingly, accomplishes a net total of absolutely nothing.
You can’t just “use p…”
After about an hour of hopping from pillar to pillar, you finally manage to surmount the doomstone. Even wearing a skirt, you are the queen of jumping. It’s you.
The doomstone, being an inanimate and nonmagical piece of rock, remains stoically unimpressed by your feat.
May as well. You brought dinner with you.
And you guess it would make sense, a stone named after a constellation only working when the constellations are visible.
As you wait, your thoughts drift back to Katia. They’ve been doing that a lot lately, something you blame on the fact that you certainly could have met her under less memorable circumstances.
Your friends already poke fun at you for handing out charity like a priest of Mara hands out religious pamphlets, but really, you’re just a sucker for happy endings. Not that you’d ever let your peers in the writing community know that. Katia was someone who seemed like she really needed your help. Wherever she is right now, you hope she’s doing okay.
And not about to do something incredibly stupid.
Welp, time flies when you’re sitting on a fifteen foot monolith and consuming a copious amount of rum and chocolate-dipped apples. It’s a cloudless night and the stars and moons are out in full force. Prime conditions for the operation of a constellation-powered Doomstone, if that’s what this is.
You guess it’s time to call it a night.